


The Broad St. Nightingale

by WandererRiha



Category: Original - Fandom
Genre: 1920s, Gen, Whodunnit, early supers, nearly vintage, noir, original - Freeform, super heroes, super powers, vintage supers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandererRiha/pseuds/WandererRiha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no murder, at least not yet, but not for lack of trying. A local lawyer is found beaten within an inch of his life at the back stage door of a known mob nightclub. The jazz singer at this nightclub is drawing in patrons by the hundreds, but by what means, no one knows. There are too many questions, but a pressing need for secrecy. When talent turns deadly, no one is safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stage Door Sparrow

“Dames,” muttered Mark, “they ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”

She looked up to find them scowling down at her. At 5’11 and 6’8” respectively, it was easy for the boys to loom. Not one to be cowed, however, she got up and stood up as tall as her 5’2” would allow.

“I ain’t done nothin’,” she sniffed defiantly, struggling to regain her composure. Her handkerchief- already damp and smudged with kohl- did little to repair her running makeup. “I’m the one what found him; who got him to the hospital.”

“Then we’re grateful, Miss,” Alex replied, removing his hat and edging forward to put himself between the petite woman and his surly partner. “You’ll have to forgive him, we’ve been awful worried about our friend, there. In this town, when a fella like him don’t come home, it usually means trouble.”

She nodded, contemplating the black-blotted handkerchief before deciding it was of no further use and stuffing it into a tiny beaded handbag.

“He never done nothin’ to no one. A gentleman, that’s what he is. No one had cause to rough him up like that…”

Alex and Mark exchanged glances but said nothing. There were folks a plenty would love to take a crack at any one of them and Dick, the smallest of the group, would be the natural choice to pick off first. Banged up and bandaged, but otherwise alive, he lay on the narrow metal hospital cot out cold. If he couldn’t answer any questions, maybe the lady could.

“Excuse us Miss, we haven’t introduced ourselves. I’m Alex Rushford, this’s my partner, Mark Porter.”

She nodded to each in turn. “Millie Lewis.”

“Now I know where I’ve seen you before,” Mark spoke up. “You’re that jazz singer.”

She nodded, cheeks pink. “That’s me.”

“The hell’s Dick doin’ with an actress,” he wondered, not impolite.

“Markus…” Alex warned. Mark shrugged, crossing his arms and closing his mouth.

“Miss Lewis, suppose you tell us what happened?”

“I’m about to go home from work a couple a’ weeks ago. It ain’t safe for a lady alone on the streets, and I’d had to work late. I seen him around here and there- helpin’ old ladies across the street and such. Never talked to him but he seemed like a nice guy. So I ask him, ‘sir, would you walk me home?’ and he says ‘thank you, no thank you’ and tips his hat thinkin’ I’m one of _those_ girls and I says ‘no it ain’t like that!’ See I don’t live but five blocks from the club and it’s dark and I’m alone and it sure would be nice to have a man along and I said I’d pay _him_ a dollar if he was to escort me. Then he laughs and says I don’t gotta pay him nothin’. He gives me his arm and he walks me home and I says goodnight and that’s the end of it.”

“Except it wasn’t,” Mark corrected. At least now they knew where their friend had been disappearing to every Saturday night. He’d guessed it was a woman- what else could it be? Still, it was unlike Dick to go chasing a skirt.

“No, it wasn’t,” she agreed half shamefaced. “He came back around the next week and sees me there. Says his office ain’t that far up the street an’ he has to pass the club to go home.”

“Just which club is this?”

“The Blue Moon.”

Mark cursed under his breath and Alex fought the urge to do the same. The Blue Moon was Pinstripe territory. If Dick had been ambushed, it likely wasn’t just because he’d started walking the star performer back to her apartment.

“Anyhow,” she went on, “he starts comin’ regular like and we get to talkin’. I never did get his name, and I didn’t give him mine ‘cause ya know, I got admirers, and some of them they just don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He’s such a choir boy I been callin’ him ‘Sunday School’.”

“He’s Protestant, actually,” Alex corrected.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Miss Lewis, did anybody ever follow you?”

She shook her head. “Not that I seen, but it felt like it a couple times.”

“Do you know of anybody who might want to hurt you?”

A longer pause before she shook her head again, avoiding his eyes and nervously fingering an ornamental perfume vial that hung from her neck. “Not that I know.”

“Where did you find him, if I may ask?”

At this she became rather pale, her narrow fingers clutching at the little pendulum of etched glass. “Out back in the alley where the performers come in and out. I only came out twice to get some air- once around nine and again at eleven. Wasn’t nothin’ out of the ordinary then. When I come out to go home around one, there he was just laying there like he’d been dropped, right at the bottom of the steps.” She shivered, closing her eyes and swallowing hard. “I never seen so much blood before…”

Alex gave her a minute to compose herself before gently prodding her to continue.

“Then what?”

“I screamed. I bet every tenant five blocks over heard it. The staff comes runnin’ and the boss, he don’t want no cops but poor Sunday he’s just layin’ there bleedin’ all over everything with his legs bent backwards an’ you can see he’s still breathin’, so Smokey- he’s the trombone player- he says we oughtta at least call the hospital so that’s what we do.”

She was shaking in earnest now, her fingers trembling around the perfume bottle.

“Miss, do you need a minute?”

“Yesthankyou,” she gasped, hurrying out into the hall.

Mark and Alex stared after her once the door had closed.

“What d’ya make of that?” Alex asked.

“She’s telling the truth so far as she knows it,” Mark replied, rolling her statement over in his head. “I still say this is her fault. She’s feeling guilty as hell over _something_.”

“A friend of hers just got the stuffing beat out of him.”

“Probably because of her. He’s my friend too. I thought he had more sense than this.”

“He’s almost as bad as I am when it comes to a damsel in distress.”

“Aw baloney,” Mark groused, “dames now a days can take care a’ themselves.”

Alex sighed and let it go. He’d heard that speech often enough.

After about ten minutes she returned, makeup restored and smelling strongly of violets. Without the kohl running down her cheeks, she proved a handsome specimen of her species. The Flapper mode became her slight build and scant height. A taffy-brown bob curled under her cloche, and bright eyes sparkled behind the heavy makeup. Although unsure what to make of these modern women, Alex could see how she might have caught Ray’s eye for shiny things.

“Excuse me,” she apologized, taking her seat once more.

“It must have been quite a shock to your nerves,” he sympathized. She shot him a dirty look.

“Nerves my ass! I ain’t never had ‘nerves’ until I tripped over the bloody carcass of a friend a’ mine!”

Both men blinked not so much at the vulgarity, but at the force of the brief rant. She was angry, perhaps rightfully so.

“Well, if there’s anything else you can think of, please let us know?” Alex offered her a card. She took it and crammed it into the beaded handbag, a look of vague insult distorting her dainty features.

“I don’t suppose I could count on either of you fine gentlemen to see a lady to her door this evening?” she drawled, sarcasm coating her voice.


	2. Better than Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys follow a trail.

“Why d’you gotta be so damned grouchy all the time?” Alex demanded, tossing his hat and managing to hook it on the back of a chair. Their own office wasn’t far from the hospital- perhaps eleven blocks, no more than a good stretch of the legs in Alex’s words.

Littered with papers and files, two desks and a telephone table competed for space in the small, single room along with a pair of battered wood and leather chairs for anyone who might care to hire their services. Cops in this neighborhood weren’t widely trusted, but a private eye wasn’t as foreign. 

“I don’t like dames what get my friends folded in half.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Markus, we dunno if she had anything to do with it yet!”

“Awright, awright, I’m sorry okay?” Mark sighed, collapsing into his own creaking seat. “What I’d like to know is what the hell was Dick doing wandering through Pinstripe Alley? He had to know he was a sittin’ duck.”

“Damned if I know. I’d ask him but he’s still out for the count.”

“Guess we better do a little sniffin’ around ourselves?”

“Guess so.”

“Sooo paper trail or liquor trail?”

“What do you think?”

 

* * *

 

“Bouncer auditions don’t start till after hours.”

The bar was indeed closed, if the dim basement lights were any indication. He had to hand it to him, hiding a speakeasy under a condemned bar made for delightful, if redundant, irony. Prohibition had not been one of the government’s better ideas, in the opinion of the general public. Therefore, Tara’s Hall was usually lively from dusk till dawn. Now, however, everything was draped in shadow and silence.

“Spare us Danny Boy, we got some questions.”

“Don’t you always,” the barkeep responded dryly.

“You run supply to half the gin joints in this town, you ever hit up a club called the Blue Moon?”

He shook his head. “No Irish need apply, gents. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

“There’s a kid got roughed up a couple of blocks away from here. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it?”

“I heard about that,” he nodded, idly polishing a glass. “Sorry about your boy. He okay?”

“He’ll live, no thanks to somebody.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“How much you know about a dame goes by ‘Millie Lewis?” Mark asked.

The bootlegger goggled at them briefly. “You been messin’ with the Don’s _niece_?”

“Wait- _niece_???” Alex echoed.

“Yeah, you heard me,” Danny nodded at their bewildered expressions. “She’s got a set a’ pipes on her but not much else. Still, she draws a crowd for a skinny dame, and I hear Papa Penecelli’s mighty protective of his kids.”

“Yeah, but what’s he got to protect her from? Dick’s harmless.”

“Is he?” Danny raised an eyebrow.

“You think Dick found something’?”

“Guys’ve been tossed in the river for less. If I were you fellas I’d keep my head down.”

“You do that. Say, how’d you know about the Lewis doll?”

Dan shrugged. “I’ve heard her.”

Mark frowned. “I thought you said you hadn’t been to the Blue Moon?”

“I haven’t. You can hear that girl from 110th street.”

Callahan Law was on 93rd. Danny went on.

“Been losin’ business ever since they put her on the stage. It’s as if she was charming ‘em right out my door and into hers.” The raised eyebrow indicated this was not metaphor but literal truth.

Well now. That made things interesting.

“From 110th street, eh?”

“Yep.”

“Markus, I think this bears further investigation.”

“Agreed.”


	3. Stage Door Siren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys attend the evening show.

There were times when Alex cursed his size. Like now, for instance. A man walking down 82nd St standing nearly seven foot tall with shoulders almost as wide would stand out in anyone’s memory. Therefore, after the usual round of arguments had been made and rebutted…

“You stay here, I’ll go.”

“As what? A bouncer?”

“Why not?”

“Because you stick out like a badly bandaged, bloody, ragged, salt-dusted, sore thumb. You stay here and I’ll go.”

“You don’t drink.”

“Neither do you.”

“It’s against the law.”

“I can watch a crowd in ways you can’t.”

“You’re not going alone into the snake pit. I can hold my own against five guys at once, you can’t.”

“Sure I can.”

“Not without the bootleggers calling the cops on _you_.” 

…both of them got dressed and took the trolley to the Blue Moon. Danny, they soon realized, had been correct in his exaggeration. The distant lilt of a female voice rolled sweetly on the evening air, drawing them inexorably toward its source while they were still blocks away. Others, it seemed, had also fallen under the spell for several men and women were wandering vaguely towards the club as if being reeled in by an invisible fishing line.

“Like the damn Pied Piper,” Mark murmured, eyeing the stupefied crowd making its way towards the night club.

“Guess Danny Boy was right; Papa Penecelli has some help of his own.”

There was no name for that extra little something that set Mark, Alex, Dick, Danny, and now Millie aside from normal people. Mark could read people’s thoughts; lift objects without using his hands. Alex’s gifts were in his size and strength. Once, just for fun, he’d tried to lift a freight car and found it no more than mildly awkward to hoist above his head. Danny, ever subtle and suspicious, had an uncanny way of quite literally melting into the shadows, and somehow Dick always knew about things long before they happened. Now it seemed that Millie’s powers of persuasion were having a curious effect on the neighborhood.

“If she can do this,” Alex wondered, “why didn’t she spin us a yarn back at the hospital?”

“Maybe she knew one or both of us wouldn’t believe it?” Mark suggested. Alex nodded distractedly, remembering that he, at least, would have been a dead giveaway simply by walking in the door.

“Think Papa will give us any trouble?”

Alex shrugged. “As long as we mind our P’s and Q’s we should be okay. Just a social call, nothing more.”

“I dunno, what if Dick was a message? Papa knows we’ve thrown out every thug a’ his we’ve come across. Somehow I don’t think he’ll be happy to see us.”

“Occupational hazard. Guess we’ll find out.”

 

* * *

The Blue Moon was one of several miniature theatres that lined Broad St. Although its proprietor avowed that no liquor was sold there, and the police had yet to prove otherwise despite countless raids, it was general knowledge that the opposite was true. It was therefore unsurprising that a distinct aroma of alcohol and cigar smoke greeted them at the door along with the surly bouncer- a man only half as big as Alex and clearly insulted at being so grossly outclassed- and the smiling coat clerk. Mark flipped her a dime along with his hat and followed his larger partner inside.

The air inside hung heavy, spiced and hazy with the smoke of countless cigars, the harsher stench of cigarettes mingling with the sweeter scents of vanilla and cloves. Elaborate lamps of unpainted wrought iron hung with glass blossoms dangled intermittently from the ceiling, illuminating the fog in a soft blue light. Below, small round tables draped in shiny cloths as dark as sapphire crowded in front of a tiny thrust stage. Off to one side a sumptuous bar of white marble and black African wood ostensibly served tea, coffee, and _hors d’oeuvres_. Dark-skinned waiters waded back and forth through the jungle of table legs along with the occasional cigarette girl, dispensing drinks and snacks. The entire cabaret seemed to be done in shades of black and blue with traces here and there of silver gilding. The most obvious example stood on stage in the center of the spotlight, singing.

Alex and Mark allowed themselves to be ushered to a table where they sat, dumbstruck, half by the magic of her song and half by what appeared to them a transformation. At the hospital Miss Lewis had seem a drab and bewildered little creature, as tawny and wide-eyed as a fawn. Now, however, clad in a spangled V-necked gown of pale blue silk and silver lame, she seemed another person entirely. The handkerchief layers of her drop-waist skirt swished gently as she swayed, softly reflecting the artificial moonlight of the spotlight. A length of glittering beads hung from her neck- probably glass, but they sparkled like diamonds in the dim light. Close enough to practically see up her skirt from their low vantage point, the audience was afforded a glimpse of elaborate gray silk stockings and dainty silver T-strapped heels. Alex could have sworn that back at the hospital her eyes- swimming with tears and kohl at the time; now bright and glittering as her crystal necklace- had been brown. Now, illuminated by the bright stage lights and accented by her aqua-colored gown, they appeared to be blue.

More breathtaking than her gown, however, was her voice. Mark, fighting to stay aware of himself amid the swarm of notes, somehow found what proved to be a coffee cup full of bathtub gin masked by a spoonful of over-brewed arbuckle and a massive fruit cocktail on the table in front of him by the time the song had ended. He blinked, confused as to how they had gotten there, and caught the waiter smiling a brilliantly white grin at him and the two dollar tip he’d just received.

“What the hell?” he asked, turning to face his partner who had somehow acquired a “coffee”, an enormous slice of devil’s food cake, and a pack of cigarettes for himself.

Alex picked up the cigarettes in confusion. “I don’t even smoke…” he stated to no one in particular. Examining the contents of his wallet before the next number began, Mark counted $3.85 out of the $8.50 he’d come in with. Alex seemed to be conducting a damage assessment of his own and hastily stuffed his own billfold back into his pocket as a quartet of black musicians began a lively rag number.

“Well at least _they_ ain’t singin’…” he muttered to himself. “What happened to the doll?” Craning his neck amid the silhouette of heads, he couldn’t pick her out in the smoky gloom. Shrugging and taking a bite of the cake, Alex did some surveying of his own and nearly choked.

“Over there,” he gasped once he had finished coughing, pointing briefly with his fork. “Right next to Papa.”

Perhaps half a dozen large, plush booths lined either wall. In the booth nearest the bar, “Papa” Mike Penecelli sat holding court. Papa had been aptly named. The natural father of about eight children and loving husband to his wife of thirty years, he had all the amiable, roly-poly jolliness of a devoted grandfather. In his plain gray suit, argyle sweater vest and paisley bowtie, he would have looked more at home in an old-fashioned parlor with a grandchild on his knee. However, his benevolence extended only to his immediate family, and sometimes not even them. Thugs and family members (the distinctions often interchangeable) sat on either side of him, applauding politely as Millie skipped down off the stage to slide into a seat next to her uncle. He gave her an affectionate pat on the cheek and beamed as she smiled timidly up at him.

“Holy smokes, Danny wasn’t kiddin’,” Mark hissed, repressing the urge to gape.

“Quite the operation they’ve got,” Alex replied, munching his cake. “She draws ‘em in and gets ‘em to empty their wallets. Talk about a star performer, the little honey’s gotta be worth her weight in gold.”

“All eighty-four pounds,” Mark agreed, popping a maraschino cherry into his mouth. “Who needs a craps table when a fella can lose his shirt just attending the matinee?”

“Sure keeps the cops down. Also might explain why they’re able to bill third rate whiskey as second-rate java.”

“The chief takes one look at her, hears her story, and swallows it hook, line, and sinker.”

“Bingo. No raids, and no risk.”

“Jesus…” Mark whistled to himself. “How the hell we gonna throw a wrench into this?”

“I’ll bet that’s what Dick woulda done- or was doing- when he got himself beat up.”

“Think she really _is_ a damsel in distress?” Mark asked, eyeing Papa’s table skeptically.

“Dunno. She don’t look too happy over there, though.”

“Think maybe we oughtta rescue her?”

Alex frowned thoughtfully for a moment before scooping up a last forkful of cake. “I think at the very least it would be polite to inquire after her health and to ask Papa about any mysterious characters lurking around the theatre door. After all, wouldn’t want anything to happen to his headliner, now would we?”

“No, we most certainly would not.”


	4. Pleasing Papa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys visit with the Boss.

“Hello gentlemen, what can I do ya for?” Papa Penecelli smiled at them. From his bright eyes to the massive diamond on his pinkie finger, the big man seemed to twinkle all over with joviality. It was, however, a mood that could dissolve all too quickly. Beneath the merry façade flowed blood colder than a crocodile’s.

“Mr. Penecelli,” Alex nodded politely. “I hope you’ll excuse our bargin’ in.”

“Not at all boys, not at all. Please,” the big man gestured to the end of the booth near Millie; two thugs obligingly got up and found seats elsewhere.

“Thank you, sir,” Alex said politely, sliding into place next to Millie with Mark right behind him. “We wanted to thank you and Miss Lewis here for looking out for our friend the other night.”

Papa lifted an eyebrow along with a freshly lighted match. Igniting his cigar, he puffed on it a few times before answering. “Terrible what this city’s coming to. That young man a friend of yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, how is he?”

“As well as can be expected.”

Papa nodded. “I wasn’t here when it happened. I’m very glad it wasn’t our dear Millie.”

Millie shrugged shyly in her seat at the mention of her name. Eyes riveted to the tabletop, she seemed to be doing her best to pretend the boys weren’t there.

“I appreciate your friend’s chivalry in this lawless age, but there’s a reason nobody wears shining armor anymore.”

The meaning was clear enough: chivalry was dead, and Dick was damn lucky he wasn’t too. Evidently they weren’t trying to kill him, just send a message: a “STAY OFF OUR TURF/STAR” in ten-foot-tall incandescent marquis letters.

“Just tryin’ to be gentlemen, sir. Either way, we’d better be going.”

“Oh no! Why you only just got here,” Papa cried, gesturing for them to remain seated. “You’ve yet to see the finale, it really is something. I just don’t know what we did without Millie.” He gave her a paternal smile and Millie did her best to return it, wilting slightly under her uncle’s praise.

“Shook people down the old-fashioned way…” Mark muttered. Alex elbowed him as gently as he could but still only just avoided shoving Mark off the seat and onto the floor.

“I’ve never heard anything like her,” Alex agreed, veiling a snide remark of his own.

“And you never will, I can guarantee you!” Papa beamed. “Best decision I ever made, adding her to the staff. We need more young people around here, don’t we?”

The remaining thugs, most of them a good twenty years younger than Papa but still older than Mark and Alex, nodded and murmured their agreement.

“How would you boys like to be regulars here? I could use a couple of strong, young fellows such as yourselves. Don’t you agree my dear?” he turned to Millie who had suddenly gone pale. Realizing that all eyes were on her, she cleared her throat and forced a smile into place.

“Oh yes, Uncle Mike.” Turning, she addressed Mark and Alex, a sudden weight and power to the harmony in her words. “You should definitely sign on, I just wouldn’t feel safe otherwise.”

Mark once again found himself struggling for control. Alex, however, already had his mouth open, a somewhat glazed look in his eye.

“Why we’d love to-- ”

“Think about it!” Mark interrupted. “Now we really gotta be going. Early morning and all of that. C’mon Al, or we’ll miss the trolley.”

The spell broken, Alex shook himself and got to his feet. “Sir, Miss,” he said, nodding politely before hurriedly shoving through the crowd and out the door with Mark at his heels. Neither stopped until they were safely on the south-bound trolley, heading away from the Blue Moon and the weight of Millie’s words.

“God _damn_!” Mark breathed when at last their apartment was in sight. “Talk about not takin’ ‘no’ for an answer!”

“I know,” Alex agreed.

“Think that siren tried to lure Dick to his doom?”

“What do you think?”

Mark took a moment to consider. “I think if she is luring in men- customers and otherwise- it was Papa’s idea and not hers. She don’t seem like she’s got the brains or the stomach for somethin’ like that.”

“No,” Alex agreed. “What’d you get off her at the club?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot that wasn’t obvious to you. She’s scared of the old man, and I think he must have her on a pretty short leash.”

“About what I thought. But so far all we got is speculation.”

“Well, if Dick’s awake tomorrow, maybe he can fill in the blanks for us.”

“I hope so.”


End file.
